The Great California Game

“Stolen stuff?”

Magda lit a cigarette. She was spoiling for a fight. Her clothes were ragbag, shoes on the welts and soiled. When a woman’s lipstick gets ragged at the edges, it’s all up.

“Lovejoy, you stupid fucka, listen up. That set’s here as a signal, see? Zole brings his loot when it’s off, stays away when it’s on. I’m getting rubbed off the street out there. Girls team up when hooker bookers move in.” She was trembling, smoking in drags, pluming the blue aside from a twisted mouth. “You’re just too stupid, okay?” She dabbed at her hair, surrendered.

One thing I’m bad at is knowing what to say when a bird weeps. I wish we’d been taught things like this at school, instead of calcium chloride and the Corn Laws.

“When you didn’t come back, Lovejoy, I thought they’d…”

Done for me? I had money to give her, but not straight off. I’m not as dim as all that.

“I need your help, Magda.”

She looked up at me from the bed, disbelieving. “Help? Shag’s all I do.”

“I may be going somewhere.” I paused too long. “Okay? I need somebody I can trust.”

“Lovejoy. I got something to tell you —”

I shoved her down when she tried to stand. Give me a battered bone-weary prostitute, I’m as tough as they.

“I know about the phone calls to Tye, how much you were paid.”

She was baffled. “Whyn’t you beat me?”

“I have people for that now, love. They’re better at it.” Not much of a joke, but she calmed with a non-smile. I didn’t quite know how far to risk the little I knew. There’s that Arabian saying, isn’t there: doubt your friend, sleep with your enemy.

“If I’ve guessed right, I’ll be travelling out of New York, several places, in a hurry.”

“Somebody after you?”

“No. But I’ll need somebody around,” The surprised understanding in her eyes made me speed through a denial. “Not a bird wanted on voyage. I need somebody close by to do the occasional job, keep contact, be at certain places.”

“You want me? What about —?”

“Take Zole. I’ll pay you, and fares.”

She was casting about the space just as Fat Jim Bethune had.

“Outa N’York? I never been…”

“You’ll need clothes, Magda.” I’m always wary about telling women things about their gear. “Though your frock’s pretty, er, smart, love, it might, er…”

“I’m in fuckin rags, Lovejoy.” She ran a finger across her cheek against wetness. “Is this up real, Lovejoy?”

I pulled out a small wad. Bethune’s money, until I’d given harsh orders to the accountant.

“Dress Zole reasonable, nothing way out. And don’t take any lip from him. He’s coming. I’ll need him for a couple of specific theft jobs. Okay?”

She looked. “How d’you know I’ll not blow the money?”

“I trust you. Don’t show yourselves in your new stuff, or somebody’ll guess. Be here every even hour from midday tomorrow, twelve o’clock, two o’clock. Understand? Ready to go.”

“Lovejoy, I’m scared.” She still hadn’t put the money away, but her pocket was torn and she’d left her handbag in her room. “I’m not… so good at reliable.”

She was scared? I nearly did clout her one when she said that. I drew slow breath. “Magda. This is your frigging country, not mine. You’ve got to look after me, okay? You just remember I’m the one who’s got to be looked after, not selfish cows like you.”

She appraised me, nodding slowly. Age was slowly fading into youth. A glim of a smile nearly showed.

“You’re right about that, Lovejoy. Deedy.”

Different woman, same opinion. “First job’s to collect something from the airport.” I passed her a piece of paper with a flight number. In the safety of Zole’s absence I’d dared a phone call to Easy Boyson, who’d been going mad. It’s a stiff envelope. You’ll have to pay out of that money. Bring it with you.”

We said a number of okays, some doubtful. She headed for a mirror. I left then.

THE cocktail party I was made to attend could have been better placed. I mean, New York’s galleries and museums are famous. Think how superb a splash in some prestigious museum would be, with antiques and paintings all around so you needn’t see people swallowing oysters and stabbing each other. Instead, you could respond to the melodious chimes of a Wedgwood jasper, a Blake drawing, see the brilliant leaves tumble on a Sisley canvas.

But it was a posh hotel. We swigged, noshed the groaning buffet and everybody talked. The people were all there from the boat, including Moira, Commissioner Kilmer, Denzie and Sophie—the former paying little attention to Moira except when their looks accidentally lingered. Good old Melodie van Cordlant was there, meaningful with glances and arm squeezes. Jennie was with everyone, curt except with Nicko on whom she fawned. Orly clung to Gina, talking loudly and occupying her every moment. Berto Gordino, lawyer of this parish, came with Kelly Palumba, for whom Epsilon the showbiz magnate competed in shrill tones. Kelly looked a million quid. Long might it last, I thought. Monsignor O’Cody was last to come. Jim Bethune was at the far end of the room, now in his Sunday best, being spoken to by Tye Dee in an undertone. Hey ho, I thought with sympathy.